


Interlude

by enigmaticdr



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Missing Scenes, murder couple in paris, pre florence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 13:55:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9074815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticdr/pseuds/enigmaticdr
Summary: Interlude: an intervening period of time; an intermission; a brief break.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime after their departure from the U.S., but before Florence. Missing scene(s) from between season 2 and 3.

Paris is stunning at night, when it is glowing with the golden hue of a thousand radiant lights. Bedelia stands on the balcony of la Maison Souquet hotel, savouring a moment of solitude – solitude that, in recent days, has proven sparse. She is all the more grateful for the precious opportunity to be alone with her thoughts.

There is a slight late-evening breeze despite the summer humidity, and it sifts through her hair and whispers over her heated skin, slipping under the silk of her robe. It feels nice and she rests her hands on the cold stone of the balcony’s banister, inhaling the fresh air through her nose. In the distance she can see the Eiffel Tower, and far below, in a small side street, pairs of people – mostly tourists – catch late dinners on the crowded outdoor terraces of lively cafés.

They are still attempting to disguise their trail – a night in Toronto, two days in Dublin, a short layover in Berlin and then half a week in Stockholm, which she finds appropriately ironic. She hasn’t completely solidified her escape strategy yet, but knows she can perform convincingly as victim if it becomes necessary.

The glass door slides open behind her.

“Armagnac?” he proposes, coming to stand beside her. He offers her a tumbler with a puddle of amber liquid caressing the rounded bottom. “Aged a minimum of twelve years. I think you will like it,” he adds, “it is very fine.”

“Thank you,” she murmurs, and accepts the drink. She swirls the liquid in the glass and then takes a sip and rolls it on her tongue, appreciating its warmth. It is smooth and tastes like oak and hardly burns at all. “It’s excellent,” she agrees, and she sees him smile in approval, as he always does when he watches her enjoy what he serves her.

They stand in silence, looking out onto the city.

“I have a house here,” she says, suddenly. “It belonged to my mother, and her parents before that.”

“We cannot visit,” he says, with what seems like genuine regret.

She takes another taste of the liqueur, savouring it before swallowing. “I have no desire to, in any case.”

He does not ask. He steps behind her, his bare chest pressing warmly against her back as his hands come to join hers, resting on the balustrade. He sets his glass down beside them so he can stroke his thumbs softly over the delicate skin on the inside of her wrists.

“I hope to be able to show you my home, one day,” he says. He lowers his head, and his lips whisper across the skin of her neck.

“You have an aversion to your childhood, Hannibal,” she says, tilting her head to the side to grant him better access, looking out at the array of windows and balconies splayed before them.

“Then we are alike,” he answers, and pushes closer, pressing her more firmly between his body and the balcony. His hands slide up from her wrists to caress her shoulders.

“In that regard, perhaps,” she concedes. “But not in any other.”

“Are you sure?” he asks. She knows that he is thinking of Neal, because she too thinks of him in this moment. Her mind spins the image of her arm withdrawing from her patient’s gaping, lifeless mouth like a record player, stuck replaying that one note over and over. Hannibal’s lips on her neck are as warm as the blood that seeped from her patient’s mouth.

“Quite,” she says.

“And yet, here you are,” he replies, his arms finally settling around her waist. She is warmed by his skin and warmed by the drink in her hand.

“I told you,” she says, turning her face to the side so she can speak the words against the skin of his cheek, “I see the truth of you.” She bites the side of his jaw softly. “And I like you.”

She finishes her drink and turns, her back pressed against the railing of the balcony, her mouth pressed firmly to his. He tastes of their shared _digestif_.

She walks him backwards until he is seated on the chaise longue. She pushes his chest gently so that he reclines against the white pillow. She slips off the heels she had put on before coming outside, and they clunk softly to the stone surface of the balcony.

She crawls forward to lie languidly atop his body, arms resting on his neck and thighs parted to bracket his hips.

“I am glad,” he tells her honestly, his hands settling to curve around her thighs, fingers gently splayed just below her ass. He squeezes almost imperceptibly.

She sits up, on top of him, gently but firmly taking his wrists and planting them on the armrests beside her. She toys with the knot in her sash, keeping his gaze as she slowly pulls on one of the satin strings and the silk of her robe falls open.

She shrugs it off one shoulder and decides she doesn’t care who watches.

* * *

Much later, she lies in the large bed inside the hotel room, her body tangled shamelessly with his. It is not often – not ever – that she allows for such intimacy. But she is exhausted and sated several times over into a state of languidness the likes of which she has never experienced, and it is impossible to move, even to the other side of the bed.  

Hannibal shifts, as if he senses her unease. The warm hand that cups her breast slides down to settle instead against the more neutral territory of her stomach. “Can I get you anything?” he whispers, eyes still closed, mouth against her damp hair. “Something to eat, perhaps?”

“No,” she replies, licking her chapped lips.

“Some water, then?”

She swallows. “Mm. Please.”

The warmth of his body disappears as he extricates himself from their web of limbs and sheets. She stretches gingerly, testing sore muscles, as she hears the clink of a glass and the promising wallow of cool water being poured.

He returns, sitting on the side of the bed and holding the glass out in her direction. She takes it in one hand, sitting up on her elbow to sip at it. It feels nice as it slides down her dry throat, and she swallows greedily. 

A small drop escapes out the corner of her mouth and slides down the length of her neck to the side of her breast. He traces its path with his eyes before leaning forward to lick it away. He lingers there, nuzzling gently until she is finished drinking.

She hands the glass back to him and he drinks his fill as well before placing it, empty, on the bedside table.  

“Tomorrow we fly to Florence,” he tells her, and it is the first time he has divulged their destination in advance.

“Will we be staying there long?” she asks, turning towards him.

“Yes, I would like to,” he answers, and lifts the embroidered sheet, shifting back onto the mattress and settling his body against hers.

“It is lovely there,” she whispers. “I went once as a child.”

“It is where I became a man,” he says, slipping his leg between hers, and she weighs the implications of his words.

There is silence after that, and his breathing finally evens out beneath her ear as he is lost to sleep.

She lies awake in the dark room, the light from the city spilling in through the balcony doors they left open in their haste. The breeze is nice as it slithers across her sweaty skin.

Florence is where he became a man.

She wonders where, exactly, this man became a monster.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
